


In Another Life

by dysphorie



Series: The Necroverse [1]
Category: John 5 (Musician), Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Necrophilia, Paraphilias, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide, abuse of a corpse, because dead guys don't say no but they don't say yes either, graphic description of suicide, like i'm fucking serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-24 20:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: Jim is a medical examiner, and he's having a really weird night."Instruments shine on a silver trayDon't let me be carried away"





	In Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE END NOTES FIRST IF ANY OF THE TAGS GIVE YOU CONCERN. Things are tagged and flagged there so as to not spoil things in the tags, so if you read it, do so at your own risk. Do not read this then complain about the content like you weren't warned.  
Also just so you know, no one actually dies in this fic. Technically.

The ancient TV drones in the background, a weather-beaten woman saying something about wine and Portugal. The worn leather chair squeaks and creaks. The useless ceiling fan whirs, trying its hardest to push a breeze out into the room and failing miserably. Not that it's really necessary; the morgue is always fucking freezing, even parts that don't need to be, but the fans stop the many and various smells from congregating in one place and becoming overwhelming. Jim used to be quick to tell people that his workplace doesn't actually smell of dead bodies and putrefaction, it mostly smells of a multitude of chemicals that aren't exactly much more pleasant, but over time he gave up and left people to their stereotypical beliefs. Now he actively gets enjoyment from seeing how creeped out people are when they find out what he does for a living. The cloyingly sweet smell is just background noise to him.

His pen rattles off the plastic-covered sheets of paper on his desk before him. Poly pockets full of forms and notes and reports, Jesus the fucking paperwork in this place is never-ending. Jim's head throbs. The very last thing he needed tonight was to get called in for this kind of shit. There's practically nothing for him to do, it's obvious and open and shut. _"Unattended death"_, though. _"Violent, unnatural death"_, though. Couldn't these people be considerate and die at more reasonable hour?? He fucking hates the night shift staff, fucking idiots to a man, though their ineptitude does make certain facets of Jim's job _much_ much easier. Nearly one whole wall of his office is a window that faces into the outer morgue, and he should be looking into a room full of people actually doing their jobs. Instead, it's empty.

With a groan Jim shoves himself out of his chair, wincing as his vertebrae realign themselves. Time to put his nose to the grindstone. His footsteps are heavy as he plods into the morgue, not exactly in a rush. That's one good thing about this line of work; the majority of his customers are _very_ patient, and don't really have anywhere to be any time soon. If anything, Jim's encouraged to take his time over his work. He wouldn't want to miss anything important, after all. 

He pokes his head out into the corridor in search of the diener as he snags a clipboard from the wall. "Corey?" Jim yells, voice ticking up at the end. Nothing. _"Corey?"_ he shouts, louder this time.

Nothing.

Wait. An irritated voice floats from the direction of the locker room, _"What?!"_

Jim rolls his eyes so hard he's pretty sure he saw his frontal lobe on the way past. He doesn't want to think why Corey's in there at this hour. That guy makes Jim look like Mr Rogers. "Stop yanking your crank and get in here!" 

Eventually, probably intentionally slowly, just to piss Jim off, a figure in scrubs topped off with a mop of stringy red hair turns the corner. "Ok, Lurch, there's no need to yell." Corey quips with a nasty grin that doesn't reach his eyes. Jim stifles the urge to pound him into the ground. Mostly because he's pretty sure the guy could take him. Corey's small, wiry, ridiculously strong and shit at his job. That's why Jim likes it when they're working at the same time; he'll help out with the heavy lifting then fuck off for the remainder.

_What's that? It's a legal requirement for all autopsies to take place in front of at least one witness? Hah! _The very idea is ludicrous. If the city was staffed by enough people, ones who actually cared about their jobs, then _maybe_ that'd be feasible. As it is, they're woefully understaffed, and the staff they _do_ have checked out long ago. Now Jim just makes sure he's got the necessary signatures and that his actual work is above reproach, so no city officials feel the need to stick their noses in. It's 31 Flavours of Illegal, but it is what it is. Jim's not arguing.

"Gonna just get in here and do your job for five seconds, man?" Jim huffs. Corey raises his hands and leans back in mock fear before giggling and snatching the clipboard from Jim's hand, pushing past him into the morgue. Reading from it, finger under the words, he leads a path across the room until they stop in front of a freezer. 

Corey's lips move as he reads. "I think," he starts, reaching for the freezer handle, "This is tonight's lucky contestant!" The joke is tired but Jim manages what could pass for a smile in dim light. His back and knees aren't what they used to be and he doesn't want to have to start humphing bodies around on his own. Best to keep the help happy. Crossing behind Corey, he reaches to pull the drawer out as Corey finishes opening the door. There's yet more forms sitting on top of the shiny black bag _(no fancy white plastic ones for this county. Who cares if evidence gets missed against a ratty black background?)_: a report for the Medical Examiner. For Jim. He skims over it, murmuring as he goes. 

"Blah blah...white male, blah blah years old...found in the bathtub yadda yadda, identified from drivers' license in wallet, so on and so forth," he says. Corey chuckles at his deadpan tone. When you're fresh from med school and starting your specialties, bodies like this are exciting, a change from old people dying in their beds or sick people who couldn't fight any longer. Well, Jim guesses from the information in the report, this one _was_ a sick person who couldn't fight any longer. Just a different kind of sick and a different kind of fight. Anyway, when you've been in this gig as long as they have, everything is old hat. It'd take something _really _special to shock Jim.

Between them they push and pull until the bag is on the gurney, and Jim busies himself gowning and gloving up while Corey wheels it over and starts manhandling the body onto the stainless steel table. Listening to the guy huff and puff makes Jim smile to himself while his back is turned; Corey's always so confident and sure of himself that sometimes it's just fun to listen to him struggle, which is why Jim had left the table set higher than usual. There's no way Corey's gonna admit that he needs the table lower, he'd eat his own face before that, so instead he just swears and pulls and hauls. When Jim turns round from setting up the whiteboard, covered in shorthand for all the information to be recorded, the bag is on the table, and he sneaks a peek at the digital scale, set to take the bag into account. One hundred and fifty pounds.That tallies up with the physical description on the report and the size of the human-shaped lump inside the bag. Together, they set about the job of unzipping it, which is always harder than they make it look on TV. Corey holds the fabric taught as Jim fights with the zipper, cursing as the teeth stick in the plastic cloth as usual. Eventually, with an almighty yank that Jim prays didn't dislodge anything important, like evidence, or a limb, the two sides separate to reveal their customer. It looks like an adult male, fully dressed with a white plastic bag taped around his head and a brown paper version around one hand; courtesy of the local P.D, designed to preserve evidence and, in this case, keep all the bits in one place. Corey's face lights up, the sick fuck.

"Oh man, this always reminds me of some shit I did once. There was this chick, you shoulda seen her, man," Corey babbles excitedly. Jim sighs. How many time must he hear this fucking story? "She put this bag over my head, right? Then she used my belt to-" Jim tries to tune out Corey's chatter while he cuts the plastic away. The scissors slice easily through the thin material. Carefully he parts it, trying not to disturb or dislodge any of the matter it contains. Only once that's done does he let himself do more than glance at the corpse's face. 

He would've sucked in a breath, but he can't breathe at all. Everything kind of tunnels in as he stares. The flush is immediate, starting from the crease of his thighs to his stomach and racing up his chest, threatening to creep above the collar of his gown. Corey's still prattling on so Jim practically shouts over him, "OKAY Corey if you wouldn't mind taking the x-rays, I'm just - just gonna -" he trails off, gesturing vaguely as he snaps off his gloves and rips off his gown, walking out of the morgue as briskly as he can without running. Without looking suspicious. It feels like it takes a lifetime to get to the toilets. When he gets to the bathroom he nearly collapses against the sink. Knuckles white on the chipped porcelain, he refuses to look at his reflection as he catches his breath. The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears begins to subside along with his heart rate. This isn't the night for this. He's tired, it's been a long week, he does _not_ need this right now. All he wanted was to get fucked up with Mick, eat pizza, and maybe get laid. That's not asking for much. Instead he's at work and he's gonna - he just - just needs to breathe deep and get through this. Nothing's gonna happen. 

With one last deep breath Jim splashes some cold water on his face. He's fine, he's fine, it's just...just a shame, that's all. A life as long as his own snuffed out like _that_. Far, far from the first he's seen, definitely far from the last. He's just a bit taken aback is all. He's fine. Everything's fine. Corey probably wont even have that many jokes to make at his expense, he thinks. Surely he's run out by now.

Look, Jim _knows_ everyone thinks he's weird. Has always known because he always HAS been weird. He was the only kid in biology who actually ENJOYED dissecting frogs for fucksake. What people think of him doesn't matter and never really has, because you don't get very far as a six foot plus teen with a preoccupation with the dead if you're not at least a little self-aware. He always accepted it, and now as an adult, he embraces it. Laughs when people call him Lurch or make Frankenstein's Monster references. It's fine. The less fuss he makes, the less attention people pay, and that's exactly how he likes it.

He'd never get to have any fun if people noticed him much.

Corey's taking his sweet time over taking the x-rays, uncharacteristically quiet, when Jim walks in, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. This is definitely once of those nights where he's going to be glad for Corey's lackadaisical attitude towards his job. He busies himself regowning and gloving, assembling his camera and filling out information on the whiteboard; age, sex, height and weight, knowing Corey will vanish back to whatever pit he crawled out of once the x-rays are done. Sure enough, when Jim turns back around, the morgue door is swinging shut, and he doubts anyone else is going to open it any time soon. Slowly, he walks back over to the table, setting the camera down gently. 

The guy looks..._young_. Young and serene, almost. Death has a way of smoothing out the features that even sleep can't achieve. Sure, Jim's seen his fair share of bodies with faces contorted into the last expression they would ever make, rictus grins, screwed up in pain, and he's seen plenty of people whose faces just looked...blank. More like the absence of an expression. 

This is different. He reminds Jim of _'L'Inconnue de la Seine'_, a young lady who drowned and captivated an entire generation with her youthful and beatific countenance. People even doubted the fact she drowned, unable to believe such a violent end could fail to leave its mark on her youthful features. Jim would've agreed. Drowning isn't known for producing bodies suitable for open-casket viewings. Looking at...(he twists his head to check the whiteboard, confirms the name) John William Lowery, he can see how stranger things might have happened. If it weren't for the blood splatter, the waxiness of his skin, Jim could believe he was having a pleasant nap.

Jim makes himself turn around and pick up his camera. It whirrs softly as he adjusts the lens, bringing the cadavers fine, delicate features into sharp focus. In a moment of madness he reaches out, twitching a lock of blonde hair to curve it more gently, so it's sitting just so against a sharp jawline before he snatches his hand back. If anyone ever asked, he'd say he was moving it away from the entry wound to make for a clearer photo. Jim's really good at explaining away the odd things he does here and there. He's had plenty of practice.

Painstakingly he makes his way down and around the body, occasionally dropping the small ruler down on things of note, cataloging the fragments that made up the last moments of John W. Lowery's life. He's wearing a faded black _KISS_ t-shirt, very similar to something Jim himself has hanging in his own closet, under a decorated denim vest, tight jeans that probably started out black but washed until gray, tucked into black boots. All of this gets filed away in Jim's memory. _So I can write it down for the report when I'm finished, _he tells himself, but he knows that's not why. From the blood _splatters_ on the shoulder of John's shirt from the initial head wound, to the blood _drips_ on the front, right on the cracked _KISS_ logo, from where his nose had bled, Jim makes his way top to toe to top again, filling the camera's memory card. Pausing, he flicks back through them. There are perhaps more of John's face than _strictly _necessary, and his finger hovers over the delete function. He doesn't press it. Just swaps out the card for a blank one and keeps snapping.

The entry wound is so small it's almost hidden, tucked further back than Jim expected above and behind his ear rather than through the temple.. This guy knew what he was doing, knew not to risk shooting under or through the frontal lobe. Aiming for the temporal for maximum damage, if the blood loss didn't kill him the trauma would. The appearance of the wound tallies up with the report of it being caused by a 9mm bullet (the casing and gun had been found in his lap anyway), powder tattooing and soot and abrasion ring confirming the gun was discharged at contact range. _***Click, click, click***, _photos taken. Moving to the other side gentle hands lift away that soft blonde hair that's been stained red to expose the exit wound. He picks a few fragments of skull away to get a clearer look, using a swab to clean away from of the blood. Such a deceptively small wound for so much damage, and that damage confirms everything Jim suspected about the bullets' trajectory. _***click, click, click, click***_, photos taken. Setting the camera down he turns to sample collecting, using fine tweezers to scrape under fingernails, dropping any findings into specimen bottles with samples and neatly written labels. Everything seems pretty standard here: death due to gunshot wound to the head. Simple.

First pass finished, he roots around until he finds the black light lamp, plugging it in and trying not to trip over the cord. _Jesus, Jim, _he scolds himself, _Stop acting like this is your first time._ His fucking legs are shaking like they did the first day he walked into the cadaver lab back in school. He hadn't been scared, unlike his classmates who took turns dashing out to be sick. No, he shook from something closer to excitement. Yes he'd been nervous but more than anything else he'd felt...driven, pumped, eager. The adrenaline had made him quiver.

That same adrenaline makes his hands tremble now as he passes the lamp over the table, the purple light not exposing anything he didn't expect.

Until it does, and Jim nearly swallows his fucking tongue.

He just manages to catch the lamp before it hits the floor and makes a racket that would definitely draw attention. He's got to be fucking seeing things. Maybe his buddy Sid snuck magic mushrooms into those pot brownies he gave Jim. Wouldn't be the first time.

Raising the light, he holds it over John's lower half again, not entirely certain he believes what he's seeing. But there it is, in all it's purpley-white glory. Now, bodily fluids fluorescing below the belt isn't unusual in the dead, and Jim's had to deal with literally every bodily fluid known to mankind. Jim knows fine well that when people die, their muscles relax, including the sphincter, and it usually results in a huge mess for all involved. It's a very..._obvious_ occurrence. Tends to be accompanied by a distinctive smell as well as the visual evidence. A _lot _of visual evidence. Adult bladders and colons are bigger than people give them credit for.

All Jim can see when he turns off the lamp is a small dark, damp patch, just to the left of John's fly. Silently he curses himself. How did he miss this while taking the photos? It's his goddamned _job_ to see these things. Too busy being fucking distracted by the pretty dead twink on the table, _that's _how he missed it. That and the mark's just not as big as the kind of wet patch he's used to seeing in that area. Well, there'll be a photo of it, that's the main thing.

Peering closer, it looks like it spreads up towards his left hip, faint at the edges. Not enough liquid to completely soak completely through two layers of fabric, so the chances of it being urine are slim. Shaking his head, he tells himself it's not possible. One too many late nights on two too few cups of coffee has his brain making shit up. For one thing, the body's penis - _John's_ penis (Lord help him, Jim's losing the ability to see this as just a corpse, just the job. Now he's a fucking _person__)_, is completely flaccid. Jim's lost count of the number of cadavers that have presented with priapism over the years. It's probably up there with the amount of people who've died _during_ sex, usually from heart attacks brought on by their orgasm. So many people who had literally been fucked to death.

This is different though. None of the responding officers reported anything indicating John doing anything sexual or having an erection at the time of the gunshot. His dick was certainly soft now, and while post-mortem erections don't last, he sincerely doubts it could've worn off between the shot being fired and the cops kicking down the door. And if it had happened earlier, whatever the liquid is would have dried in by now. Which means...

Ok, Jim's had a lot of strange things happen in his time as M.E., but if what he suspects turns out to be the case...? That'd be a first.

He giggles, mildly hysterical, scrubbing his face. _What even is this night?_ The more he considers the very concept that this man may have orgasmed at the very moment of his death, the more giddy he feels. Jesus fuck, Jim's walked that tightrope on many an occasion and yeah, coming down on the side of choosing to live is a definite moment of relief, but he's never _came_ as a result of that relief. How desperate must someone be to die that the moment their candle is snuffed out, they experience - they experience -

What do they experience? How do you describe or define an orgasm? Some say it's the most incredible feeling ever, like being high on the best drugs. That post-orgasmic borderline loss of consciousness is even referred to as _'le petit mort'; _the _'little death'_. It's painfully accurate, and however John experienced it, he experienced it right at that moment.

Jim leans down a bit, holding his breath and inspecting the face closely. The body of Mr Lowery hasn't started to take on any of the usual smells associated with death yet thankfully, but Jim's a creature of habit. From here he can see even clearer how the furrows on John's forehead are now smoothed out, how his blood-stained lips, slightly upturned in the smallest ghost of a smile, are also parted, just a little. Something pulls at Jim, makes him lean in closer.

Closing his eyes he can picture it;_ John's small frame lying fully-clothed in his ancient empty enamel bathtub, back against the slope and neck against the rim. White tile wall to his left, only a few inches from his shoulder, that feels cool to the touch. He was found with his head leaning against that wall, and Jim had heard the cops in the hall saying that had it not been for the blood and brain matter, they could've believed he was just crashed out. Who hasn't passed out drunk in someones bath at a party, after all? But no, when they'd checked his pulse, a futile but necessary gesture, they'd found him nearly as cold as his surroundings._

_Was John William Lowery cold in those last moments before he pulled the trigger? Not just in temperature, but in temperament? Jim hasn't seen John's eyes yet but he so badly wants them to be a deep brown, soft and warm. That kind of chocolate shade that turns nearly black with dilated pupils and makes Jim melt inside. No, he's sure John was a warm person. Friendly, genuine. Maybe alone, but not lonely. A face like that could never be lonely._

_The S&W, as compact a model as it was, even with the changed-out palmswell insert, must have felt heavy in those slight little hands. Jim wonders if they shook with the weight of the gun, the weight of his actions. Or was he strong and steady and resolute? His mind's eye sees John look up to the ceiling, imagining what lay beyond it as he smiled for the last time and raised his right hand, placed the cold metal against his head, and_ -

***_creeeeeak*_ **

Jim whirls around, heart hammering. Fuck, he's pressed right up against the autopsy table, leaning over til he's nearly nose to nose with the body. The metal is cold even through his gown and scrubs, cooling his scorching skin. It's hard to act nonchalant when you were nearly caught practically lying on top of a freshly dead cadaver, so Jim just tries his best not to actually die as he tries to recognize who opened the door.

It's just Craig the radiographer, coming in with the developed x-rays. Jim stammers out a thank you as the manila envelope is dropped on the counter by the door, but he doubts Craig even looked at him. The guy's not known for his sociable demeanor. Clutching his chest Jim tries to catch his breath as it rattles through his lungs. It's not his closest call, like his job _does_ require him to get rather up close and personal with the bodies sometimes, but still. This was closer than close, dangerously so. He's not usually so distracted or careless.

Frowning, Jim chews the inside of his cheek. This particular case has him slightly rattled, a bit off-kilter. There's tears stinging his eyes and he doesn't know why and he's so fucking stiff in his scrubs. What the fuck is wrong with him? He's never like this, never this discombobulated. Gloved hands scrub at his face, dragging his eyelids down. His eyes land on the envelope. Oh right, the x-rays. Maybe staring at something else for a few minutes will clear his head. 

Grabbing the godforsaken films he stomps over to the light box, slams them in and practically punches the light switch. Gnaws at his knuckle and nearly weeps in reliefwhen he feels the tension between his legs start to loosen.

They're clear. No visible issues, with the obvious exception of the cranial damage. Shit. He's not sure what he was hoping for. Proof of a beating, blunt force trauma, just something to indicate this might not have been self-inflicted. But there's nothing. Doesn't even look as though there's been so much as a remodeled fracture from a childhood spill off a BMX bike. Just the evident path the bullet traced as it bored through soft grey matter. He glances behind him again, can see the exposed entry wound. Yep, it all matches so far. He'll still have to open his skull up to confirm trajectory, make sure there's no underlying neurological issues (the idea of cutting into John's scalp and disturbing that angelic cloud of hair makes his heart sink), but so far, everything is building towards the most obvious conclusion.

That just throws him off further, and he doesn't know why.

He stares at the ghostly images, eyes drifting out of focus as he tries to remember how to just do his fucking job. Think Jim, think. What's next? The steps parade through his head like a drunk marching band, out of order and all over the place.

Ah shit. It's time to get John undressed. And _washed._ Shit.

Pushing off the smooth surface with shaking arms he tries so ignore his burning face while searching for the scissors. Damn, Corey did a worse job than usual of setting out Jim's instruments on the Mayo tray. Jim calls him something terrible under his breath.

Then he remembers he was the last one with the scissors. He doesn't recant the insult though.

Shit, it's fine, it's cool. All the pertinent evidence has been collected and the stains are localised to the front of his shirt so he can just undress John the old-fashioned way. Just like every other loose and languid body he's ever had to work the clothing from.

Jim doesn't think he takes a breath the entire time it takes to undress John's torso, his blood pressure rising with each inch of pallid skin revealed. Of course he's pale, all the blood that once might have given him a rosy glow slowly being pulled inexorably downwards by gravity to settle in mottled pools. Livor mortis isn't very pronounced yet, but it wont be long until it is and Jim will see that bright magenta-purple contrast strikingly with John's new waxy white hue. Something tells Jim that John was probably pretty pale in life too though. He's got those fine, delicate features of someone who always looks ethereal, never quite of this world. 

He's thin. Very thin. A little bony but mostly made of lean, wiry muscle, like he took care of himself. Jim likes lean muscle. Likes the way it feels when he sinks his teeth into it, when his teeth catch on and rake over prominent bones like collarbones and ribs. 

John's ribs and collarbones are prominent. _Very_ prominent. Saliva floods Jim's mouth and he has to swallow hard before he starts drooling. Whoops, too late. Or maybe that's not drool. Maybe his brain is finally leaking out of his nose and running down his lips, he wouldn't be in the slightest bit surprised.

The rest of the process doesn't take long, but Jim takes his time over it. More time than he would usually. _I'm trying to preserve evidence. What if I missed something? Gotta be careful with this shit, James._

It's a flimsy lie, but Jim clings to it regardless. 

The rest of John's body follows what Jim expected. It's every bit as immaculate as Jim expected. Despite his short stature his legs are long and shapely. Jim hesitates, only briefly, before snapping off a glove to touch trembling fingers to John's thigh, and his head tips back with a sigh. It's so soft, achingly so, just the faintest amount of downy hair there. He strokes his hand upwards, dipping his fingertips into the crease where thigh meets hip. There's no response. Of course there isn't, not from John anyway. Jim's body, however, responds like he's been electrocuted. It's his favourite spot, to touch and be touched, and he can feel it. Feels ghostly hands run along that line, making his balls tighten against his body again. _Oh_, it's been such a long time since Jim felt good. Felt that - that _release_. Don't get him wrong, Jim fucks and gets fucked, but this is different. It's a different _kind _of release, and kind of relief he knows he wont get elsewhere.

Oddly, now that he's got John naked he finds it easier to take a breath, to step back and assess rationally. Like everything's out in the open now, no more secrets. Or maybe his brain has just turned off out of self-preservation. Either way, his hands shake less when he picks his camera back up to document the tattoos spread across John's chest. They're beautiful, delicate; bright Japanese koi and flowers and kanji that Jim doesn't understand but loves nonetheless. It's such a shame that he's going to have to cut through them. The writing will be completely bisected, will be warped out of shape by the baseball stitches he'll use to put John back together again. He's surprised to find he's quite looking forward to it. It reminds him of trying to lay stickers down in albums, making sure the edges align perfectly to complete the image, not wanting the edges to be askew. 

What's of greater importance now though, is stitching together the whys and hows of how John Lowery came to be on Jim's slab in the first place.

Time to start the real official shit. He steps on the pedal to start the dictaphone, willing his voice to stay steady and strong when supplies all his official details, tacking Corey's on at the end when he nearly forgets. The waver in his tone has nearly gone when he comes to recording John's vital statistics.

"The body is that of an unenbalmed, well-developed, well-nourished Caucasian male who reportedly shot himself in the right temple with a Smith and Wesson M&P 2.0. He has been identified as Mr John William Lowery by the responding officer, and his appearance is consistent with the reported age of," turning to consult the whiteboard, he confirms John's age for the recording, to himself that they are indeed the same age. "He weighs approximately one hundred fifty pounds and measures five feet seven inches."

Giving the whole body another look over, Jim sighs. He's going to be here forever describing these fucking tattoos. Fuck his life.

"The head hair is bleached blonde, natural colour not visible. The iridies are -" he pauses, smoothing one eyelid open, then the other. He was right. "- brown and show no marked clouding." And they're that exact shade of brown too. Goddamn.

Now for his teeth. John's lips are cold and glass-smooth under Jim's thumb, just a little pouty with the perfect cupid's bow. _Lips to kiss a man and make him suffer. _Where had Jim heard that line before? He lets that invisible force draw him in again til they're almost touching. Were John still able to breath, Jim would be able to feel it ghost across his cheek. Using his thumb, he tugs those cherry-red lips open and around to expose the teeth, the gums, the tongue. Fuck, John's tongue. It's still a bit wet, and Jim wants to fucking suck it. He can imagine those lips stretched around his cock, squeezing it like a vice between his tongue and the wet spongy grip of his hollowed-out cheeks...

Jim thinks he's having a fucking stroke. "The teeth," he grits out between his teeth, "are normal and natural. The oral mucosa is tan, moist, and unremarkable, without visible injury or palpable lesion. The mandible is intact. The frenula are intact." John's jaw sits neatly in Jim's big hand, his fingers and thumb easily touching his cheeks when he curls it under the mandible. With a forward tug on the jaw John's mouth is pulled open further, and from this angle he can see John on his knees in front of him, all doe-eyed and needy while Jim holds his mouth open and traces his lips with the head of his dick, smears precome all over them. Letting go and turning his hand over, he keeps it in the same position as he leans it onto the neck next. Tightening his grip, imagines John's breath stuttering in his throat when Jim chokes him. Because Jim gets the feeling John liked a bit of the rough stuff. Liked being held down and picked up and thrown about like he weighed nothing. Would've wanted Jim to lean his weight onto his throat and knock him the fuck out while he slammed into him again and again. His fingers dig in, alternating, pressing without rhythm. "The neck is supple, normally formed, symmetric, and without visible injury or lesion. The trachea is palpable in the midline, symmetric and unremarkable,"

The ghost of a concept drifts into Jim's mind; John's windpipe struggling against the weight of Jim's hand, and refuses to leave when he shakes his head to clear it. Jim presses his eyes shut, headache threatening to make a comeback. This is torture, having to catalogue every feature that just makes John more and more tempting by the second. Why does everything feel so fucking hard tonight? Why did it feel like that took a million hours? He glances at the clock on the wall. It's one of those fucking ticking-tail black cat clocks. His coworker Jay has a strange sense of humour, and Jim hates the fucking thing, with it's blank googly eyes and stiff grin. It reminds him a bit too much of his customers. Either way, so far the autopsy has only taken a bit longer than it usually would. It's late, he's tired, so he's taking extra time to make sure he's being extra thorough. That's all.

Moving down, he checks and records the state of John's chest, including his tattoos. Nothing of note, everything's going swimmingly. His abdomen is soft, flat, no swelling from bacterial gases yet. Placing his hand flat to John's stomach, just below his bellybutton, Jim imagines what it might've been like to feel that flesh flutter with shaky breaths beneath the pressure of his lips. Imagines what kind of noises would John have made if Jim had set about sucking red and purple blotches from hipbone to hipbone. His hands lifts, fingers barely touching at all, as they stroke further down the midline to the public bone, marveling at how smooth the skin there is, only the barest hint of stubble. Jim's always appreciated a man who kept things trim. He hesitates, digits just at the edge of the small tacky patch of liquid that still hasn't quite dried in yet. 

What did John taste like in life? Salty, or sweet perhaps? Both? What was his diet like? He'll probably find out as soon as he examined the stomach contents, but Jim still wonders. Did he have the earthy raw flavour of a meat eater, or maybe the lighter, almost fruity taste of a vegan? Did he smoke? Drink? So many factors that no longer bear any real relevance.

Before he can talk himself out of it he swipes his finger through the mess, sticking it firmly in his mouth. He rolls his tongue slowly around the digit, reveling in the experience to commit to memory. It's sweet, _so_ sweet. John's diet was _definitely _light on the meat. Jim thinks he may have stroked out briefly. With his other hand he shifts John's legs, spreading them apart. Again, from what Jim can see this area of the body is, objectively, perfect. No trauma, no deformities. But an external examination isn't enough. You have to be thorough with every aspect of the autopsy process, and Jim is _very _thorough. 

With a wet pop Jim takes his finger from his mouth, wet and slick, and presses it to that spot behind John's balls that would make him shiver were he still capable of movement, of experiencing sensation. Speaking into the dictaphone he notes, "The atraumatic external genitalia are those of a normally developed adult male," _very_ developed. Even with the lack of bloodflow, Jim can tell John was a substantial size when hard. Hell, he's pretty substantial now, soft. Those fingers rub harder, move down further. He really is just doing his job, really he is, he _has_ to check the rectal area for signs of trauma or bruising. Tilting his head and pulling down the overhead lamp for better light, he runs his finger down the crease to John's hole.

Now, Jim's been doing what he's been doing and thinking what he's been thinking, and all the while it never occurred to him to wonder if John shared Jim's sexual orientation. It's not like he's wearing a bright pink shirt that screams "I LIKE COCK", after all. What gives Jim cause to think he might be on the right track, however, is a little line of raised flesh, the seam of a healed scar. A fissure, healed. Most likely more than once. Fissures can be caused by all sorts of things, things as simple as large bowel movements even. Repeated opening of a fissure though...Jim wonders how deep it goes. It's pretty visible from the outside. It was probably quite severe at the time, like something large was shoved in without any prep or stretching or lubricant. Jim's nostrils flare. The dark thing coiling in his stomach pulls tighter.

His finger slides in easily.

John's hole is tight despite the relaxed state of his muscles. He can feel the ridge of the scar on his rim extending upwards even through his glove. The normal rational doctor side of Jim points out that it probably should've been dealt with surgically, that fissures like that can be nasty and painful and wonders why he didn't get it seen to. The godforsaken gremlin side of him that's currently acting up points out that it would probably have felt incredible against the underside of his cock as he pounded into John's tiny body.

Jim spits. Another finger works its way in beside the first. 

Both sides seem to be at constant war tonight. Jim has no idea which is going to win, and he's worried either way. His mind drifts as his fingers move, rubbing those velvety walls. Did John like being treated roughly? Jim assumed he did previously, and now he's considering the opposite. John's so small, so delicate - maybe he needed a gentler hand. Maybe someone who wasn't willing to put in the time to get him ready hurt him, and John was too ashamed to see a doctor, just living with the pain and discomfort of the wound. Anger burns faintly in Jim's gut. John didn't deserve to be hurt, not like that. Not at all. He wants to know who did this, who hurt him, who -

The cold of the table snaps Jim from his reverie. He glances down, sees his dick hard and pressed against the metal. There's a huge splotch of precome on the front of his scrub pants. For the love of - _what the fuck is he doing? _

He's just starting to annoy himself now. He keeps doing the same thing over and over, and what is it they say about the definition of insanity? Every time he finishes a step in the process, he stops and gets all fucking maudlin and introspective; examine, evaluate, mope, examine, evaluate, mope. Ok yes it's literally how his job is done, perhaps with less moping, but he's not examining or evaluating this _case _or the _facts_, he's examining and evaluating _John_. And that's not right, not what he's here for. He rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated and impatient. 

A checklist dances through his brain, like a mariachi band this time. He's going to fucking stab the guitarist, but at least he knows what to do next.

*

Washing the cadaver always feels kinda sad. Like it's the last gentle caring touch that person will experience before yet more violence is inflicted upon them by way of scalpels and shears and Stryker saws. He doesn't enjoy it per se, but Jim always treats the step as something special. 

He apologises to the air in the room about the temperature of the water as he aims the hose to hit John's skin, wincing at the way the pressure makes the lividity blanch. It's getting darker and more pronounced as the hours pass. A stark reminder that their time together is temporary, fleeting. Not that Jim needed the reminder, but it brings him back to his senses a little. Slow hands rub down narrow, brightly-decorated arms. The water makes the tattoos gleam as if brand new, the stream from the hose giving movement to the koi, swimming happily in a sea of flowers. With his thumb he presses against the paper-thin skin of the inside of John's left wrist, between those birdlike bones. Feels the muscle there; it's strong, lean but clearly exercised frequently. He lets the limb slide until John's hand is in his, and he turns it here and there, inspecting it closely. There's substantial callouses built up on the fingertips, and Jim recognises a guitarists fingers when he sees them. They're long. Thin. What Jim's mother would call "piano fingers", she always said it about Jim's too. 

Lifting the arm he presses John's fingers against his mouth. They're a little rough, what he expected. John obviously played guitar a _lot_. Jim's own frethand callouses are nowhere near as developed. 

Great, now he's thinking about finger speed and strength and the magic they could work on his hole. _Very good Jim, at least that's not the creepiest thing you've thought all night._

Laying John's arm back down Jim quickly grabs the rubber body block, positioning it under the base of John's skull, tucking his chin towards his chest. Suddenly he's thankful he can't see John's face. This is one of those times it's better if you don't think of the cadaver as a person, just a...a job. He needs to stop thinking about John's face, muffled by his own scalp and hair. It's not the most dignified thing in the world It'll be easier if he just...does the thing. Still, he uses the pretense of checking John's hair for any missed particulates to drop his face down, nose just brushing a few strands. There's a vague lingering scent. Jim can't place it, but it's such a - such an _alive_ thing to smell. Usually the dead just smell of chemicals and decay. He shouldn't be surprised; nothing else has been normal about this autopsy so far, why would something as pedestrian as odour be any different.

It's probably the fastest cranial examination he's ever down. Cut, cut, saw, inspect, weigh, record findings (which were exactly as expected), reassemble for sewing later. When he's done he wants to apologise for the invasion, and he's way too far past caring about the consequences of his actions when in lieu of a verbal atonement he leans down again and presses a kiss to the incision. He just needed to know what that hair felt like against his lips. Just once.

With John's head reassembled and looking more like he did, it's easy for Jim to shift the body block to behind the middle of John's back, easy to watch his arms fall back and push his chest forward. What's not easy is picking up the scalpel to make the Y-incision. It's something he does nearly every single goddamned day, and now for what is probably the first time since his first time, he hesitates. He thought he was looking forward to this bit, wanted to open John up to discover what literally made him tick, but now the idea of visiting more violence upon John Lowery makes him feel a bit queasy.

Autopsies are inherently such brutal acts. People die and it's called going to their final rest, but it's not. They're pushed and pulled and cut open and taken apart and thrown back together again, and just because it's a necessary evil, that doesn't make it ok. Fucking hell, when did Jim become so fucking introspective about his job? Why has his gremlin brain chose this fucking autopsy to start contemplating his place in the universe and the consequences of his actions and all that mumbo jumbo? Perhaps it's time to give his therapist Dr Crahan another call. The guy's a fucking clown, Jim's not sure why he bothers seeing him, but he seems to understand the way Jim's brain works and that's pretty rare, so he sticks with him.

It's time. He can't put it off any longer.

Snapping on two new pairs of gloves, he doesn't hesitate this time as he picks up the scalpel and presses it to that point at the tip of the shoulder, bringing it down across the chest to the bottom of his sternum. The skin parts easily beneath the blade, and the troughs in the table carry away the minimal liquids that ooze out. It hasn't been long enough yet for everything to completely sink to the lowest point of John's body, but it's nothing like what comes out of a beating-heart body. Jim hates the way movies either make it look clinically clean or like Jigsaw's been involved. There _is_ a middle ground for fucks' sake. There isn't exactly blood and lymphatic fluid slashing across the walls, but it _is_ still a rather...damp process.

Slowly and methodically he cuts through the muscle and soft tissue, giving him flaps to open and expose the ribcage. The bones break easily beneath Jim's pruning shears, or rather Home Depot's pruning shears. It comes away in one piece, and Jim puts it to the side carefully to replace later. Here, now, everything John ever was has been exposed to Jim's green eyes. All the bits that made him tick, and Jim knows John inside and out. Not in a personal way; he knows nothing about him as a person. Never will. He'll never have that chance and he's sickened by it. The smell hits Jim even through his mask, same as it does every other day. He ignores it, the same as he does every other day.

He examines the organs _in situ_ then removes them one by one, doubting very much they'll yield anything that will make John's actions make more sense_. _Sometimes people kill themselves because they're chronically ill, after all. None of his organs are showing any signs of medical malady. According to the butchers scale hung above the table,John's heart weighs 289g. That's all. This muscle that powered his body, pumped gallons upon gallons of blood through his veins over the years, weighs less than a pound. How is that even possible? The liver, the kidneys, everything is removed and weighed, inspected, sampled and placed to the side. The little jars of formalin rack up one by one. 

He runs the gut, nose wrinkling at the smell. Doesn't matter how long he does this job for, he never gets used to that particular smell. He's just glad that the powers that be didn't make John void his bowels as he died too, that's literally more shit than Jim can deal with right now. Nothing of note is expelled anyway. He opens and examines the contents of John's stomach, or rather, the lack of contents. There's nothing. Nothing in his bladder either. Almost like John wanted to make sure he didn't make a mess. _'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse',_ Jim supposes. Can't say he's mad. He rather appreciates the attention to detail. As he's gathering up all the organs and ligaments and connective tissue, placing them into a viscera bag and packing it tightly back into John's abdomen, it occurs to him that it's also somewhat comforting to know that John didn't make this decision rashly or in the heat of the moment. He wanted this. He _really wanted this._ Plotted and planned and left this world on his terms. Jim hopes that wherever he is now, John knows he got what he wanted. His corpse is beautiful.

Too beautiful. Too beautiful and gentle for this world, with his delicate features and musical disposition. All things Jim has completely assumed with zero evidence to confirm, but he doesn't care about that. There's a pulsing feeling in his chest, getting stronger by the minute. It's been there all night. Started as a buzz, a vague vibration that he barely noticed. Now it's grown into a double-kick drum beat, hammering a tattoo against his ribs. Adrenaline's pumping through him, filling every vessel, threatening to deafen him. He waits for the feeling to pass, but it just carries on. Keeps going on like a drone, and Jim clamps his hands over his ears. It's too much. He feels sick and wound tight like a snare drum.

In his head he sees them together, picturing John standing next to him. In front of him. He'd barely reach Jim's shoulder, the perfect height to burrow against his chest with Jim's long arms wrapped around the narrow wings of his shoulders. The vivid image burns into Jim's retinas behind closed eyelids, and for a split second he swears he can feel himself leaning down to drop a kiss on John's hair, feel John's arms tighten around his waist, feel John smile against his skin. When he opens his eyes his vision's blurred and his chest rises and falls sharply with deep, panting breaths. He has to cover his mouth with one hand to keep the whimper in, doesn't want to give it voice because then it becomes a real thing. Nothing about this is real, nothing. 

Oh no. Those dreaded words. Jim isn't prone to stressing over hypotheticals, but fuck he can't stop himself from thinking...what if? Like, how did they not know each other, and what might have been if they did? Same age, clearly similar style and tastes in music. Would they have gotten on? Would John have been charmed by Jim's anxious awkward timidity? Might he have smiled at him and taken his hand, led Jim through the crowds that stress him out in public to find a small space where they could get lost in a little world of their own? Alternatively, maybe he would've hated Jim; too impatient to deal with his indecisiveness, too much the extrovert to Jim's introvert. Maybe Jim's tendency to fall into depressions would have made John hate him eventually. It would've never worked. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thought and visions.

Miserably, he fails. It all slams into him at once and suddenly his beard is sodden with tears. Shaking a little he just lets the tears fall. It - it was beautiful. It could've been beautiful. In another life, maybe. Maybe he and John could've been happy and beautiful together. Squeezing his eyes shut he crams his fist into his mouth, slumping down to press his forehead against John's cold belly. His other hand reaches out to brace against the tray at his side, trying to keep himself upright on shaking knees. 

It hits him. Hits him like a fucking Mack truck.

Why. Fucking _why._ Of all the suicides Jim's investigated, why this one is so strange and moving and serious to him has been bugging him the whole time, and now he finally knows why. It crashes over him like a tsunami. He's always been philosophical about suicides; his is not to reason _why_ people kill themselves, people's reasons don't matter or affect him in any way. Usually, that is. Right up until John made that crucial, fatal decision and landed himself on Jim's slab, and now all he can think is _why?_ Why did John do this? Why was he pushed to that? Why was there no one with him in his last moments to perhaps at least _try_ and talk him out of it? And why the actual fuck does Jim care?! He's lost count of the number of times he's put his job, his livelihood, his fucking _freedom_ at risk in just the past few hours. If he was caught this time what else would they manage to dig up on him? The metal tray creaks in his grip. The tools rattle along with the quivering of Jim's arm. He can't do this. He can't. He's already gone too far and it's too much and if he goes any further he'll lose what last vestiges of dignity he has left.

It's all well and good saying "In another life, maybe," but Jim doesn't want it in another life. He wants it in _this_ life, wants it so badly he thinks he might throw up. 

Something snaps. _Fuck it. You only live once._

Hauling himself upright Jim kicks the Mayo tray, sending it rattling across the room with a metallic scrape. Everything seems to move in fast forward. Putting those long legs to use he hooks the step stool out with a foot while a shivering hand smacks the button to lower the table a bit. For once in his life his ridiculous height is actually going to come in useful. If someone were to walk through the door right now, Jim would neither notice nor care. The hammering of his pulse has drowned out everything; noise, rational thought, you name it. A kind of feral frenzy's caught him and he can barely get his scrubs and boxers down far enough to pull his dick out before he's tugging it, hard and fast with the wrong hand. _John's_ hand, his blasted brain tells him. That nearly makes him blow right there and then, but he bites his lip and breathes through his nose, squashing the feeling down. The nitrile glove it sticky against his skin at first, but he's leaking everywhere so it's not long before the slide is slick. Fuck stopping to spit in his hands, Jim would yank his dick bloody before he'd let it go. His eyes find John's face; he can just see a sliver of brown eyes peeking through his nearly closed eyelids, and his mouth is still slightly open. Jim feels the tears trip down his cheek, pleasure licking up his inner thighs. It's overwhelming and astounding, but it's not enough.

He leans forward over John, and his right hand reaches for purchase, something to ground him, and finds it's way into John's body cavity, onto the plastic bag of innards. He's not even aware of which organs he's leaning on right now, but it doesn't matter, he just digs his fingers in. Feverishly he pulls at himself, squeezes his dick til it feels like it could explode. It's not enough. 

Pushing his fingers harder into the viscera bag he twists them, ripping the bag open and letting the organs spill back out into the cavity to land wherever. His vision's going black at the edges as he holds his breath until he can't and has to heave out the carbon dioxide and take in another lungful. The room's starting to spin but John is the axis that Jim clings to for dear life. Rubbery squelching fills the room, the squeak of wet gloves on skin and organs being jostled against each other. His throat is raw, his breath rasping across his cotton-dry tongue, and in his addled mind he thinks if he died right now, he'd die happy. Fuck the stories that would get back to his family before they even hit the papers, the internet; it'd all be worth it for the experience of this moment. The blood rushing through his ears is deafening, his brewing orgasm roaring through him. Thank god John killed himself, thank god Jim was blessed with the proclivities he has, they brought him to this point in time and oh fuck, he needs it, this, he needs John, he needs - he - he -

\- clamps his right hand tight over his mouth as he sharply huffs through his nose again, inhaling the gamy odour of John's viscera as his eyebrows knit and more tears well in his eyes, left hand stuttering in it's jerky movements along his dick as he starts to come. It's devastating, the way it drags him down into that dark place he can only ever find at times like this. _Christ_, Jim thinks his eyeballs might fall out he's staring so hard at John's face, feeling his eyelids twitch and half convinced he's going into convulsions. Spilling over and over into the open cavity of John's chest, right onto his cold fucking heart. A sob gets choked off in his throat as he works himself through his orgasm, wrings his cock dry. Stars burst in his brain, his lungs burn, and he gasps in a heaving breath as he drops his right hand to grip the table edge as he sways. It's that or fall off the step stool. At his height he'd probably break his neck, end up as dead as the man on the table. It's a temping thought, to be free of a world that allows beauty to die. As exquisite a thought as giving himself over to the yearning in his veins sounds, his more rational brain begins to drift through the fog of his post-orgasmic high.

His legs shake like wet spaghetti as he steps down from the stool. Throwing himself onto a seat he lets his shoulders slump while he lets his breathing return to normal. He's waiting for some kind of realisation to hit him, some kind of impact of his actions to come down on him like a crushing weight. It never comes. Instead there's just - clarity. His mind is clear. His head doesn't hurt and Jim actually feels quite peaceful. Snapping off his gloves he dons a new pair, and starts reassembling John W. Lowery. Rebags his organs and nestles them back in their home, gently placing his heart at the top, giving it pride of place. His come is still wet and white on the surface. It makes Jim's heart flutter to think that John will always have a part of him with him when he finally goes to his actual final rest. Then comes replacing the ribs, closing the flaps, and sewing him back together with the most careful, precise baseball stitches Jim thinks he's ever done. The kanji tattoo on John's sternum is nearly perfect.

The office is dark when he wanders back in after washing up. Sitting back down on his creaking leather chair he set about filling out his reports, uploading the autopsy photographs from the multiple memory cards. No one would notice Jim loading copies onto a flash drive that he pockets as he leaves. They don't pay him that much attention. Jim knows he will carry the memory of John in the spaces between his bones for the rest of his days, but it can't hurt to have a visual reminder. He'll file it neatly at home with the others. 

Jim _knows_ everyone thinks he's weird. Has always known, and now he practically revels in the expressions of disgust he gets from people because they have no earthly idea how much worse he really is.

**Author's Note:**

> The themes explored in this fic include necrophilia, lack of consent/the other party being unable to consent, suicide and graphic depiction of suicide, graphic depictions of medical procedures, and abuse of a corpse. Sexual things are done to a corpse in this story, but not sex. That's the short version. If you need more detail, this probably isn't the fic for you.
> 
> We're taking artistic liberties here too. Don't @ me about legal and medical inaccuracies, I did all the research I humanly could (THIS FIC HAS A BIBLIOGRAPHY FFS) but I probably still goofed once or twice, and come on, if I hadn't fudged the legalities none of this would've been possible, though maybe you'd have preferred that.
> 
> This work is the first part of an UPCOMING SERIES. As such single works inspired by are fine, but I would rather people didn't write any sequels, spin-offs or similar. I LOVE anyone who writes ANYTHING inspired by my work, but this fic is my baby and I'm just...not comfortable with more than a one-shot. Thanks my dears <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Other Life (or, Promise Me I Won't See You at Work)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400551) by Anonymous 


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